Many Returns
by detectivejigsaw
Summary: John and Merlin meet again; this time, Arthur is back, and needs John's help. And of course, Sherlock comes along for the ride, because he can't mind his own business, and we learn more about what these two groups of friends have in common. No slash, and I claim no ownership, etc. etc.
1. An Old Acquaintance

**As so many writers say, I'm sorry if this is horrible. But I hope you like it anyway. I'll continue it when I can, and I'd love comments and/or suggestions. I'm not planning to make this particularly long. Probably it will be five chapters at most; everyone okay with that?**

* * *

Sherlock was not gone (again). He had ended up not going off to his death after all (and had he really thought he'd fool John into not recognizing that was about to happen? It was almost insulting how little credit he still gave him). On the other hand, it appeared Moriarty, that horrible, murderous psychopath, was alive too, and that was why Sherlock was allowed to stay in England. Was it a worthwhile price to pay for keeping his friend? You bet it was.

* * *

The very day after his near-exile, Sherlock had jumped at the opportunity to take a case, and even though he didn't ask John to come, in fact had indicated that he didn't need to, John had come anyway. There was no way he felt like letting Sherlock out of his sight, not after coming so close to losing him. Again.

Afterward the case was solved, that evening Sherlock and John were strolling towards home (which these days, was rather relative as to whether it meant Baker Street or the place where John and Mary slept; both counted as home now), in companionable silence, just enjoying the comparatively peaceful sunset and the feeling of success that came with a solved case-John nearly jumped out of his skin when a voice from behind them yelled, "DOCTOR WATSON!"

He spun around, and saw a tall, gangly young man running down the street towards them, dodging clumsily around other passers-by, splashing through a puddle carelessly, before finally skidding to a stop before the two men. As he stood there, panting, John racked his brains for how he knew him. Something was vaguely familiar about him, but he wasn't sure-

"Emery Merle," the boy supplied. "We had a talk in the park a few years ago."

"Huh-" John smiled. "Oh, yes." He remembered the day he'd gone to the park, angry with Sherlock (again), and met this boy who claimed to have a similar problem with someone named Arthur. My goodness, that had been a long time, especially when taking into account Sherlock's pretended death and Mary and all that.

* * *

Then John noticed that Emery was very out of breath...and also seemed to be quite upset.

"Are you all right? Why are you-"

"It's Arthur!" Emery almost yelled, causing several passers-by to give them strange looks. "He's back, but he's hurt, and I need you to come help him!"

"Who's Arthur?" It was the first time Sherlock had spoken; he had just been standing there, staring at the boy and probably deducing everything possible about him.

"He's my mas-my friend." The slip did not go unnoticed by either of them, but the boy plowed on through it. "He's going to die if we don't do something now."

The words brought back a haunting sense of deja vu, but John pushed it aside. "Can't you take him to the hospital?"

"No!" Emery gasped, and then tried to compose himself. "No, I-I can't. It's complicated. Please, you must come with me now."

"All right," John finally said. Then he added, "But I should probably get my medical bag from home-"

Emery threw up his hands in a gesture that combined exasperation and despair, and seemed about to start yelling.

"I know we have to hurry, but I'm assuming you don't have any equipment with Arthur at the moment-"

"He doesn't," Sherlock interrupted.

"-and I can do a lot more for him with my own equipment. It won't take long, don't worry. What is the nature of his injury,by the way?" As he asked, he began trying to hail a cab.

Emery hesitated, and then said, "He was stabbed. By a sword."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Awfully archaic method of attacking someone."

Without bothering to respond, the boy shot out his hand, and right as he did so, his eyes turned from blue to gold. Not more than two seconds later, a cab screeched to a halt in front of them.

* * *

As they bundled themselves inside and gave the address, Sherlock and John shot each other looks asking, _Did you see that too?_

_Yeah_, the detective nodded.

_Could it be just a coincidence?_ John asked with a raise of an eyebrow.

_Possibly_, Sherlock's face conceded. Then he glanced at their young companion, as if to say, _But there is definitely more to this fellow than meets the eye._


	2. Meeting Arthur

**I know this isn't perfect, and my medical knowledge is pretty limited. But I hope you like this anyway. I'm so, so sorry for how late this is; my only excuse, pitiful as it is, is that I've been busy and/or distracted by other things. I'll try to post more often, if I get enough enthusiasm from my audience. Also, for those of you reading The Grinning Gargoyle, I do have an idea of what I want to write next, I'm just a little stuck with how to write the next part. I promise, I'll continue it. Also, I'm sorry, but I do pick on Sherlock a little bit here, because I think he occasionally needs a taste of humble pie.**

* * *

They made a very quick stop at the Watsons' house-John barely took the time to grab his bag and explain to Mary that he was helping a friend in need before dashing out again-and then Emery gave the cabbie instructions to take them to Kensington Gardens. As they headed there, Sherlock continued to ponder this strange young man. So far he had been able to ascertain that he had grown up with his mother, had a particular fondness for pastries, had a strange scar on the back of his neck, and was not going by his real name. He was also loyal, intelligent, secretive, and brave. And something else, something he really didn't understand...something about this boy seemed unusually, well, _powerful_ (the only word he could think of to adequately describe him). Like even though he was a scrawny boy, he could destroy them and everything else in this neighborhood if he wanted to. Sherlock didn't understand, and he didn't like not understanding. It made him irritable when he didn't know something; all he knew was that it probably had some correlation with the way the boy's eyes had changed color earlier, just before the cab pulled up.

Though his natural instinct was to dismiss that as a trick of the light, or another hallucination, something about this felt too different. He decided the best thing was to keep gathering data, and see what else he could learn about Emery.

As soon as the cabbie stopped at Kensington Gardens, the boy was leaping out of the car, dragging John with him and (for once) leaving Sherlock to be the one to pay the fare. He did so very grudgingly, not sure he appreciated how the tables were turning. By the time he turned back, they were already gone down one of the paths. Now he was sure he didn't appreciate how the tables were turning; he always wanted to be the one leading the pack, because that was his role in the world. If other people were too slow to keep up, in either a mental or physical sense, that was their problem. Unable to prevent a growl of frustration, he hurried to catch up with them.

* * *

John hurried after the strange young man who needed his help, the excitement and urgency meaning that his leg didn't even think of having a psychosomatic limp. They heedlessly crossed the grass, until finally they came to Round Pond. To John's surprise, there was an old, wooden boat floating on it, close to the shore, and when they got close, he could see that inside lay another young man, blond this time, and more muscular than his friend. What made him even more distinct was the fact that he was wearing what looked like chainmail of some kind; actual chainmail, and armor, and a long red cape. One gloved hand lay over his left shoulder, and John saw that the mail underneath was stained with scarlet. No question about it, he was hurt.

"Arthur!" the boy called, shaking him slightly.

The older boy barely stirred.

"Let's get this onto the shore," John interrupted, grabbing the prow of the boat and starting to pull it in. "I can treat him better if he's not in the water."

After another distraught moment, Emery jumped in the pond himself, managing to tread water to keep himself upright, and began to push from the other side, showing unusual strength for one so skinny. At some point during the process, Sherlock showed up, and without asking questions helped John to pull.

Once the boat was out of the pond, the boy pulled himself out of the pond, quite waterlogged but completely oblivious to his new dampness, and looked down frantically at his friend.

"Arthur! Arthur, wake up! I've brought help!"

"Ugh," Arthur moaned.

"Arthur, please!"

John gently nudged him to the other side, and after donning a pair of rubber gloves, he removed the boy's hand from his shoulder, so he could look at the wound.

"We'll have to get him out of this," he concluded, indicating the chainmail. "Sherlock, help me."

Grimly the detective helped sit Arthur up, and begin maneuvering him so they could get him undressed. As they did, the young man moaned, and reflexively clutched the at the wound again. His face scrunched up in quite obvious agony, and so they were forced to stop, helplessly.

"How do we get this off?" John asked, automatically looking to Sherlock for a solution. In hindsight, he realized he could possibly have asked Emery; the boy didn't seem at all surprised about his friend being dressed like that, so he must have been familiar with it, and might know how to remedy the situation. However, he was also used to his friend being the one with all the solutions.

"It appears to be the kind that slips on over one's own attire, so we can't unfasten it at all. We'll just have to pull it off."

"Right." Though he knew how much that would hurt the patient, John also knew they hadn't time for a different solution. So he finished moving Arthur into a sitting position, and removed his cape, before preparing to ask the other men's help in standing him up. But then something else interesting happened: Emery thrust out his hand, and muttered something in what sounded like a foreign language; as he did, his eyes turned gold again, and with a clinking noise, the chainmail just fell apart, leaving Arthur bare-chested, and with a visible gaping wound in his shoulder.

* * *

A now utterly shocked John looked to Sherlock for a possible explanation as to what had just happened. That had definitely not been a hallucination; they could both feel Arthur's skin where there had once been cold metal and an old shirt underneath, and see the many links now lying in the bottom of the boat. There were no strings attached that either of them could see, and Arthur was genuinely injured, so he couldn't have been involved in making it fall apart. The only explanation John could think of was that somehow, by making his eyes turn colors and muttering that phrase, whatever it was, Emery had been able to make the shirt fall apart. But the explanation, when he thought about it...no, no, it was too ridiculous. It had to be. That wasn't real. Right?

Sherlock looked equally flabbergasted. He stared hard at Merlin, and said in a strangled tone, "Explain."

The boy looked mildly terrified, but said only, "I can't right now. Fix Arthur, and I swear I'll explain everything."

"I'll try, but I honestly think we should call an ambulance," John said softly as, adapting to the new situation, he produced some peroxide and a few other surgical instruments from his bag.

"I can't; I don't know how he'd take it."

"What do you mean?"

"He's never been in a hospital before; I don't want him to feel too uncomfortable here before I can help him adjust somewhat. Besides, they'd ask all kinds of questions that he really can't answer, and-"

His explanation was interrupted by Arthur making a strangled sound of pain; John had just poured peroxide into the wound, and was examining the inside for any intrusions, or to see if it had punctured anything important. He was in better condition than he could have been; apparently the wound had missed anything important, but it was definitely going to need stitches. The main problem, besides that, was that he had lost a lot of blood, judging by his pale complexion.

As he mused, he barely noticed that Arthur's eyes had opened, and the patient was staring at him in a mixture of confusion and fear.

"It's all right," he reassured him, "I'm a doctor. I'm here to help."

The younger man squinted, and murmured something that sounded like, "Where's Gaius? Where's-"

Emery made a small choked sound. "Gaius is gone. But I'm right over here. It's okay, we can trust them."

Arthur's head swung around in his direction, and his body sagged in relief.

"There you are, _Mer_lin. I was wondering where you'd gone."


	3. Sherlock of Little Faith

**Hey, I'm back! Did you miss me? Sorry, I've been busy, and distracted by various things, such as ****_One Upon A Time_****, and school. But I've finally brought you the next part of this story. It has more Sherlock-bashing, and Arthur-healing. Enjoy.**

* * *

The boy now known as Merlin gave a rather sobbing laugh, and said, "I told you I was coming right back, you clotpole. Why don't you ever listen to me?"

"In case you haven't noticed-" Arthur grunted as John continued doing his best to repair the wound- "I have been stabbed in the shoulder. I have more important things to think about than listening to my servant. Especially now that I know he's been keeping secrets from me for years."

The darker boy spluttered, "Well, excuse me for wanting to conceal something that, if you or anybody else knew about it, would get me executed for sorcery!"

Arthur gave him a hard stare. "You really think I would have executed you?"

"Yes."

"...You're wrong."

Merlin shot him a disbelieving look. Arthur protested, "No, really! I'm king, I wouldn't sully my hands with the blood of a dirty sorcerer, I have guards to do that!"

"I'm a warlock, you numbskull!"

_I can definitely see why Emery-sorry, Merlin-thought we have a lot in common regarding our relationships_, thought John, rolling his eyes slightly as he wound a bandage around Arthur's injured limb. Even though he had little idea what they were talking about, and some of it sounded a little crazy, hey, probably a lot of people felt the same way listening to him and Sherlock. He had become flexible enough not to really be disturbed by it, though he was still curious. But the doctor focused on fixing the bandage in place.

It was about then that he noticed his patient was giving him a funny look.

"Merlin, who are these people? And what are they wearing?" He glanced over at Merlin, and his eyes widened. "What are you wearing?!"

"What do you mean? I still have this." Merlin indicated his neckerchief with a smile.

"Yes, but the rest of your wardrobe looks different!"

"They dress differently here. We'll have to find you some new clothes that can help you blend in."

Arthur nodded slowly; John got the feeling he would have argued, but at the moment was too exhausted and confused. He sagged limply for a moment, before murmuring, "You didn't answer my question. Who are these men?"

"Don't worry, they're here to help us. The one treating you is a healer named John Watson. The other is-" he stopped blankly, looking at the tall man as he realized he hadn't even gotten his name. Finally he said, "-John's friend."

Both men reacted to this assessment; Sherlock by an outraged splutter, John by a snort of surprised mirth. Sherlock, however, followed up his initial reaction with the words, "I am Sherlock Holmes, the world's one and only consulting detective! For G-'s sake, man, have you been living in a hole?!"

Merlin stared at him, and then glanced over at John. He finally said, "You're that John Watson?"

John nodded, before saying, "We need to get your friend somewhere dry. If not the hospital, then we should probably bring him to Baker Street."

"Good idea." The boy went to a nearby tree; placing his hand flat against the trunk, he murmured in that other language again, and again his eyes flashed gold. He left his hand there for a short time, before sagging slightly, and the rejoining the group.

"...What was the point of that?" Sherlock asked, in his (not used as often as pre-Reichenbach) "you are being a weirdo/idiot/person who has somehow offended me" tone of voice.

"That will save us having to get a cab," Merlin gasped. "I enchanted the tree so it's a sort of portal to your flat."

The detective gave a loud, derisive snort. "Is that really the best you could come up with? Enchantment and portals? That sounds like the plot of one of those stupid TV shows John likes."

Merlin gave him a hard look. "You might not believe it, but it's true."

"Then why didn't you use one earlier when you came to fetch us? Or 'create' one to bring us here?"

"Because I didn't want to startle you."

"Or because you didn't have your tricks or optical illusions set up there. You had to bring us here, where they all are, in an attempt to get us to believe that you are-reincarnations of King Arthur and his wizard Merlin, or something preposterous like that."

John gave him a bemused frown. "You remember the stories of King Arthur, but delete the name of the Prime Minister?"

Sherlock retorted, a bit too defensively, "The adventures of the Knights of the Round Table are interesting. The Prime Minister is not. And that's beside the point. The point is that we have just nearly been the victims of a very elaborate prank."

"If you don't believe me, go ahead and push on the knothole on the tree. That should open the portal," Merlin retorted, a note of challenge in his tone.

Sherlock Holmes, never one to turn down a challenge (one of his more idiotic traits, in John's opinion), strode to the tree, coat flapping dramatically.

"Is this the knothole you mean?" he called over, indicating it with a press of his finger.

"Yes, that's the one." Merlin was smirking slightly as he replied.

Disregarding him, the detective pushed on the knothole, which actually moved inward slightly. Marveling at the special effects, he turned from his companions to look at whatever illusion had been set up-and nearly had a heart attack when he found himself in the living room of his flat.


	4. Culture Shock and Bitter Truth

The boy grinned at the look on John's face when his friend genuinely disappeared into the tree trunk. He got up, and jogged over to the tree, peering in himself. And gasped when he, too, saw the inside of the flat, with Sherlock standing in the middle of the living room, frozen, eyes darting every-which-way as he was assured beyond a shadow of a doubt that he was really here.

"What-how-" he whispered.

"Simple," said Merlin, poking his head into the tree behind John. "Magic."

"Magic cannot possibly exist," the detective retorted.

"Why?"

"Because it is a fantasy created by people with fanciful imaginations."

"Then how do you explain being in your home, with the entrance being a tree?"

"Because it-because you-"

Sherlock scrambled for an explanation, but finally had to concede that no matter how improbable the situation, it had to be the truth. Magic was real. And it had just been used to open a portal through a tree to Baker Street.

* * *

Merlin made a satisfied sound, and then turned to John.

"We should bring Arthur in now. Quickly, before someone sees this."

"Oh-okay." John hurried over and helped him lift his friend (who had drifted off to sleep), bringing him into the flat and gently laying him down on the sofa. They pushed the boat back out onto the lake; it seemed unlikely to serve any useful purpose to bring it in. However, Merlin did collect the remains of the chain mail and Arthur's shirt, by bundling them up in the red cape. And John retrieved his medical kit. As soon as they were all inside the flat, Merlin muttered in that language again; his eyes turned gold, and the entryway closed, leaving not so much as a seam in the wall.

Sherlock finally forced himself to adjust to the situation. So there was magic in the world. So a few of his accepted simple truths had just been turned on their heads and given a shakedown. So King Arthur was lying on his couch, and his famous wizard (sorry, warlock) Merlin was standing by the bookshelf, examining the titles. He could deal with it. It might take a little more time, but he could deal with it.

* * *

John checked Arthur's vitals again, and announced, "He'll live. He needs rest, and to be kept warm and given plenty of fluids...but he'll live. And actually, it might be better if I stitched the wound now." He knelt down, and set to work. These weren't the best conditions for it, but it wasn't the first time there'd been blood on the sofa (long story), and more than likely it wouldn't be the last. At a gesture, the two other men began assisting him.

While they worked, Sherlock abruptly looked at Merlin and asked, "Who's Gaius?"

The younger (well, actually much, much older, but he looked younger) man looked down, and murmured, "My father." Then, after a second, he amended, "Well, you could say he was actually my stepfather. But he was the closest thing to a father I had for most of my life. So he deserves the title."

Sherlock could sense, based on his choice of words, that Gaius was dead. But something prompted him not to confirm his suspicions (for once). He just continued helping John.

* * *

Arthur must have been truly exhausted, because he barely acknowledged the fact that he was being operated on. And as soon as he was stitched up and the wound was bound, he just snuggled further into the couch, and seemed to go back into a deep sleep. John shepherded the others into the kitchen to clean off their hands, and once they were clean, he began making tea.

"Care to tell us what all this is about?" he asked.

Merlin sighed, and leaned against the counter.

"It's a very long story," he explained.

"Well, Sherlock will never forgive you if you leave without satiating his curiosity. So you might as well start telling us."

The detective gave John a look, but he just stared back as if to ask, 'Can you deny it?' And he was forced to shake his head no, and gesture to Merlin impatiently.

Merlin told them everything that he felt was pertinent: about how he first came to Camelot, how he became Arthur's manservant, his having to hide his powers for most of his life because if anyone found out he'd have been executed (Sherlock did interrupt there, to point out that if he was so powerful, couldn't he have just used his magic to protect himself if anyone found out? Surely even if they threw him in a dungeon, he could just escape. Merlin, after an awkward moment, just said that it was difficult to explain, and moved on.), how Morgana had gradually turned evil and tried to destroy Camelot, how Mordred eventually gave Arthur a fatal wound, and how Merlin put him on the lake, where the Lady of the Lake would protect him until he was needed again.

"...And you've just been waiting for him all that time?" John asked, sipping his tea (which he had finished while Merlin talked).

The warlock shrugged. "Basically, yes. Normally I look a lot older, but I found a spell to make myself look like I did when Arthur knew me-I wanted him to have something familiar to-to help him feel more at home."

"Awfully nice of you," Arthur murmured, staring at them over the back of the sofa.

* * *

Merlin muttered something about the infernal region, and then demanded, "How long have you been awake?!"

"'Bout when you were telling them about Morgana…" His expression became sad for a moment. Then he said, "That smells good," pointing to the tea.

"It is," the warlock agreed, sipping it.

When he realized that the man he still thought of as his manservant had no apparent intention of giving him a cup, Arthur sat up a little straighter (flinching as he did so from the pain in his shoulder) and asked, "Would you be so kind as to give me some?"

Merlin glanced over at John. "Is it safe to let him have a cup?"

"It's fine," the doctor reassured him. Satisfied, Merlin poured a mug of tea, and brought it over to the former king, who happily began to drink.

"At least they know how to make a decent cup of tea around here," he murmured finally. "Though otherwise, this place is just...weird."

Merlin flinched at his friend's bad manners. Arthur didn't notice. He just watched the two other men who joined them in the living room with curious eyes.

"You never answered my question, Merlin-where are we?"

The warlock said promptly, "It's called London."

"London…never heard of it. Is it close to Camelot?"

"Sort of."

Arthur looked around, paying special attention to the electric lights, the tiled kitchen, and numerous other things that wouldn't have looked strange to anyone else.

"Merlin, is this-does this place have magic?"

"No, it's science," Merlin reassured him. "You know, like Gaius was always doing."

If he hoped to satisfy Arthur, he failed miserably. The blond man started shaking his head emphatically.

"No, no, Gaius never did anything like this. There's something you're not telling me, Merlin. What is it?"

* * *

Merlin swallowed, looking away uncomfortably. Arthur gave him a confused stare, but then looked to his companions.

"How far are we from Camelot? I need to get back there as soon as my wound is healed. Or even sooner, if possible."

John and Sherlock looked at each other; Sherlock raised his eyebrows, as if to ask, _Should I tell him?_

John glared, and shook his head. _No, you idiot! Are you out of your mind? Do you know what that knowledge would do to him?_

_He's going to find out sooner or later_, the detective implied, with his 'surely this is obvious, John' face.

John's forehead wrinkled. _He just had surgery on his arm and shoulder. I don't think he's in any condition to learn about this._

Sherlock was about to argue (verbally) that since the man was obviously a trained soldier, based on the callouses on his hands and his arm musculature, and based on the fact that he was already awake and talking, he probably had pretty strong adaptive abilities, when Arthur interrupted by banging his mug of tea down on the coffee table, nearly breaking it.

"I am the king of Camelot, and I demand to know-"

"You're not the king anymore!" Merlin interrupted.

* * *

After a shocked moment, Arthur turned his head towards his manservant.

"What?"

His voice was a combination of anger and confusion, though his tone was soft.

"Arthur-I'm sorry to put it like this, but Camelot doesn't exist anymore."

Before Arthur could start asking questions, Merlin hastened to reassure him, "Morgana and Mordred are both dead, so it wasn't them. After you-after I put you on the lake, Gwen became ruler of Camelot, and it all went well-but it's been years. Centuries, actually. And, well, you've been kind of asleep for all that time."

Arthur blinked, slowly. Finally he asked, "Centuries?"

"Yeah." Merlin reluctantly told him the year; Arthur promptly turned white.

"So-so Gwen and Leon and everyone-"

"Yeah. I wasn't going to tell you yet, but I guess I have to. They're all gone. Everything's changed." Merlin sat down quietly, pain in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Arthur."

The erstwhile king of Camelot rolled onto his side, turning his face into the couch.

* * *

**Sorry, I know it's been a while. I was kind of stuck about how to write the next part. But I hope you liked it.**

**I don't remember if they actually had tea in _Merlin_, but let's say just for argument's sake that they did. Let's also say, just for argument's sake, that Arthur was asleep for all the time he was with the Lady of the Lake, so he doesn't know about how much the world has changed while he was gone, or that everyone else is dead. Which, while I'm thinking about it, would actually be pretty horrible. Kind of like for Captain America, only on an even more extreme level. I'm babbling, aren't I? Sorry.**


	5. Revelations and Explanations

Neither John nor Sherlock could blame him for being a little traumatized. They decided to let him rest for the night, maybe try to help him adjust in the morning.

* * *

John told Merlin, "You can take the room upstairs if you want. It will be more comfortable than the floor or a chair."

"I've slept on floors before," Merlin argued. "And besides, Arthur might wake up disoriented and need someone to be there for him."

Unexpectedly, Sherlock spoke up. "There's another room just down here you could use." He gestured towards his own bedroom.

John's eyebrows nearly rose into his hair as he looked over at his friend, and after a second, he inclined his head in a silent thank you. Sherlock just gave him a look that said he had no idea what he was talking about. John retaliated with a warm smile that said that yes he bloody well did, but even if he couldn't admit it, John was still grateful to him for arranging things so that Merlin could be closer to Arthur, and that it was very thoughtful of him. The detective finally looked away in embarrassment, and said, "I just need to move some things," and hurried into his room to do so.

* * *

The next day, Arthur was still looking traumatized. But at last Merlin managed to convince him to sit up and eat something, and let John (who came back after work) change his bandages, and even to take a shower (which nearly scared him stiff until Sherlock explained how it worked). Once he was dressed in some of Sherlock's spare clothes-a gray button-down shirt and jeans that he used for when he was undercover-he sat back on the couch, with an ice pack on his shoulder, and brooded.

Finally, out of the blue he asked, "How do you know about us? I remember that earlier you and the healer both claimed to remember our lives. Has our legacy really lasted that long?"

"...In a way," Merlin cut in before the detective could answer. He produced a book seemingly out of nowhere, one of the children's stories about the Knights of the Round Table. "This is what people read and believe nowadays."

Arthur took it, and settled down to read.

* * *

Before long, he was spluttering indignantly, "That's not how it happened!" or "I never did that!" at least once every two pages. Just as the other three men were ready to kill him if he said either of them or an equivalent one more time, he suddenly jerked up.

"They think that Mordred was-my son?!"

Merlin couldn't help snorting with laughter. Not too long after, the others joined in. They couldn't help it, what with the look on Arthur's face and all. He looked as utterly horrified as it is possible for a man to get at the notion.

Arthur scowled. "It is not funny, _Mer_lin."

The warlock just chuckled harder, though he tried to stop. "Sorry," he managed to get out as he finally composed himself. However, as Arthur went back to his book he smiled at the doctor and the detective so they could see he wasn't that sorry. Arthur, however, evidently saw it out of the corner of his eye, because he lobbed one of the sofa cushions at Merlin. Just before it could make impact, it froze in midair, and then dropped to the floor.

"Hey, no fair using magic!"

"Now that I don't have to keep it a secret anymore, it is completely fair! You're physically the stronger one, so I need to have some compensation!"

"I am the-"

Arthur stopped, remembering that he was no longer king. With a small sigh, he went back to his book.

* * *

When he finished, he put it aside. "Well, at least they basically got the ending right." Then he looked over at Merlin. "Why do you think that I came back now? It doesn't seem like there's any way that Camelot could possibly need me now. It's become this-England, and from what he tells me-" he pointed at John- "they already have a monarchy. What use could they possibly have for me?"

Merlin stood up. "I actually have a theory about that. I think the reason why you've been brought back-" he reached into his pants pocket, pulling out a folded newspaper clipping- "is because of this." He unfurled it, and they all took a good look. It had a picture of Sherlock and John's dear old friend Jim, grinning madly, and underneath it the caption: **Moriarty Returns!**

* * *

**I don't remember if Arthur could read or not. But since Merlin could, I assume he could too.**


	6. Joining Together

***Enters with a sheepish smile***

**Hi, everyone. I know this is...a *little* late; don't hurt me. I wasn't sure how to end this for a long time, having a bad case of writer's block for this particular story. But I figured out something; I hope you like it.**

* * *

"...What has he got to do with me?" Arthur finally asked.

Based on their expressions, John and Sherlock were wondering the same, though the detective was now putting two and two together to figure it out.

Merlin looked a little embarrassed. "It's...kind of a strange idea. And maybe even a bit of a stretch. But it makes sense to me."

Arthur looked up at him with a 'Do tell' expression.

"Look at the first three letters of his name," Merlin said, pointing to the clipping.

Arthur did so. "M-O-R." He shrugged. "So what?"

Sherlock understood. And started wondering how well he had assessed Merlin's intelligence as the warlock explained, "Don't you remember, Arthur? The three people who caused the most trouble for Camelot before all had names that started that way. Morgause, Morgana, Mordred. And now-" he pointed at the clipping again- "Moriarty."

After a long pause, Arthur said in his most patronizing tone, "You can not be serious. You think the man brought me back to Cam-to whatever they call this place now _because his name starts the same as Morgana's?!_"

"It's not just that!" Merlin protested. "He's also destroyed the lives of millions of people, arranged many of the murders, thefts, and other crimes that go on in this city-and all without using a scrap of magic, as far as I can tell. He even managed to steal the Crown Jewels once."

That seemed to get through to the former king. His eyes widened, and he sat up straighter, giving the picture of Moriarty a long stare. Then, with a sudden realization, he asked, "How long has he been doing this?"

"Ages," Sherlock cut in.

"And nobody has ever managed to catch him? What kind of useless, incompetent knights do they have here?"

Sherlock smiled-an actual, full-fledged smile at someone else more or less having the same mindset that he did about those who were in charge of law enforcement. Then he said thoughtfully to Merlin, "You have a good point, actually. If there is anyone who would make whatever powers that be think think England needed Arthur, it would be Moriarty. Though I don't think you're actually needed, because England has-ow!"

John had reached over and clipped the back of his head before he could say that England had him. Then he asked Arthur, "Do you have any thoughts about how to deal with Moriarty?"

The young-looking man stared at the photo for the moment, then said without hesitating, "Find him and put a sword through his chest. He doesn't have magic, as far as we know, and doesn't appear to be wearing any armor, it'll be easy."

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Merlin dropped his face into his hands.

"It's not that simple, Arthur," he muttered.

"Why not?"

"For one thing, we don't know where he is."

"That's why we go find him and then-"

"Also," John cut in, "he has weapons too. Far more sophisticated ones than swords."

That caught Arthur's attention. "Like what?"

After a second, John produced his gun and held it out for the former king to see. "Like this."

Arthur looked at it, confused and with a bit of scorn.

"What is it, some kind of club?"

He tried to pick it up by the barrel, and looked affronted when John quickly pulled it out of reach.

"It's called a handgun," Sherlock cut in, finally finished sulking over not being allowed to express his hubris. "It works by-"

Unfortunately, he was interrupted from his lecture on the workings of the gun by feet thumping up the stairs, and someone knocking excitedly at the door.

The old Sherlock would probably have ignored it, and proceeded with his lecture, maybe yelling at whoever it was to shut up; eventually, he might have waved for John to go and open it, just to make the noise stop. This one just grumbled to himself about "imbeciles" and went and opened it himself. And stepped back, revealing Anderson.

"Are you busy?" his former nemesis asked in a syrupy voice that made even John feel nauseated.

"That hasn't stopped you before," was the dry response.

Anderson peered around him, and gave a small gasp at the sight of Merlin and Arthur.

"Oh, you've got clients! Sorry, sorry!"

"What is it?" The detective was unable to keep the impatience out of his tone (not that he was trying that hard).

"Lestrade sent me to get you, because you weren't answering your phone-there's been a murder in Kensington Gardens that he wants you to take a look at."

That definitely caught Sherlock's attention-a murder in the place where they had gone last night? Coincidence? He thought not.

"Tell G-"

"Greg," John interrupted before he could finish the name. Sherlock shot him a look over his shoulder-and as he did so, he noticed with surprise that both their guests were staring at Anderson with evident shock (and some confusion).

_Interesting._

He turned back to Anderson.

"Tell Lestrade that we will be there soon."

"Yes sir!" The former forensics man (who apparently had nothing better to do than hang around crime scenes, despite being fired) bounded away like an overeager puppy.

John had noticed the expressions on their guests' faces too; he asked, "Do you know him?"

Merlin shook his head slowly. "It's just-he looks a lot like one of the people from my village." After a thoughtful moment, he concluded, "He must be a descendant."

"Hopefully he's got better survival instincts," Arthur murmured, earning himself a clip to the head (which Merlin apparently was not afraid to give, now that his friend was no longer the king).

John stood up, and then looked back at the patient and his friend indecisively.

"You need to go check that out-if it doesn't have to do with us, then it's a remarkable coincidence. But he needs to be looked after," he gestured to Arthur.

"I'm fine," the former king protested, sitting up straight and promptly wincing in pain.

"Merlin can look after him," Sherlock pointed out. After all, he was used to being the man's servant, wasn't he?

Then the warlock spoke. "I could come with you. That way Dr. Watson could stay with Arthur, and I could see if there's any magic involved in the murder." He stood up, and gave the detective a disarming smile. "Trust me, I'm good at investigating crime scenes, even when there's no magic involved. I did it all the time back in Camelot."

Sherlock shot John a look, wondering if it was acceptable. Of course, he didn't need his friend with him all the time, even during a case, but ever since the Fall...he had begun to appreciate his presence more. He'd missed him during those two years, and the one day he took on a case while John wasn't speaking to him, not to mention the four minutes he'd spent in exile; these were nowhere near the same circumstances, but Sherlock didn't want to be without his friend if he didn't have to be.

The doctor just said, unperturbed, "That could work. Just let me know whatever you find out, yeah?"

"And me!" Arthur insisted.

"Yeah, let both of us know. Then we can start planning out our next move." He sent the detective a stern look, threatening bodily harm if he even considered charging off without him; he didn't know how, but he knew that this was something all four of them would have to work on together, if they wanted to stop Moriarty once and for all.

Sherlock nodded in resignation, and turned to Merlin. "All right. Come on, then."

And so the detective and the warlock (wizard? One of those, or maybe both) set off to investigate the crime scene, leaving the doctor to look after the once and future king.

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**I know, this isn't quite a suitable ending; more a set-up for a sequel. But I'm thinking of taking this opportunity to open this up to anyone who might want to help me write a sequel; maybe they could write for half of the group, and I could do the other half, or something like that. Does that make sense? Let me know if you're interested, anyone!**

**Also, if you didn't understand the reference with Anderson, the actor who plays him has a cameo appearance in one of the episodes of ****_Merlin_****; he plays one of the people in Merlin's village, who ends up getting killed. Just thought it would be funny to include him.**

**By the way, sorry if I messed up on Sherlock, by making him too needy or easily chastened. I just, like I said, feel like he needs some occasional humble pie.**

**Well, this is all for now, unless a new idea comes to me, and/or I get a co-author. I hope you enjoyed this.**


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